Rashan sat cross-legged in his tent, shirt off, sweat drying along his spine. The map table had been pushed back for space; gear lined the floor in neat rows—methodical, silent, like a ritual only he understood.
His fingers moved across parchment, checking spell sequences and updated loadouts. The corner of the cot held three open notebooks—unit rotation schedules, drafted field kits, and personal spellwork. He glanced between them, marking lines with a charcoal stub as he went.
Conjuration was tight. He could call a short sword, a bow, and a shield—nothing flashy, but solid under pressure. Restoration had enough basics to stabilize bleeding or keep a fighter on their feet. A few drain spells sat off to the side in rough script, tested in sparring but not in real combat.
Basic potion recipes—aside from his acceleration draft, bomb formula, and sleep compound—included a short list of practical brews: something to slow bleeding, reduce pain, clear the lungs, improve low-light vision, and purge toxins. Reliable. Simple. Easy to make in bulk.
The bulk of his research was Alteration.
The problem with most mages, Rashan had decided a long time ago, was that they never asked the most basic question when it came to Alteration: what exists if Magicka doesn't?
They skipped past it. Treated the world like a blank canvas waiting to be reshaped, instead of something with structure—rules, forces, patterns. Real things. Predictable things.
He didn't buy into that kind of shortcut thinking.
In his notes, the phrase appeared again and again in the margins: "The natural order exists whether Magicka is present or not." Gravity, motion, pressure, force. The same principles that governed matter on Earth—those still held weight here. No amount of spellcasting changed the fact that the world was already built on systems. Complex ones.
And the evidence was there—if anyone had bothered to look. The Ayleids had used Alteration not just for flash, but for architecture. They made entire towers float with anchored field equations. The Dwemer didn't even rely on Magicka—they used tonal architecture and resonant manipulation to alter mass, inertia, density. They'd vanished, yes—but their machines still functioned. Still obeyed physical rules.
Even Shalidor—one of the last mages to truly ask big questions—believed Alteration to be the key to unlocking deeper truths of the Aurbis. Not just making stone flesh or walking on water. Truths.
To Rashan, most Alteration spells were crude. Crutches, really. Bend light, harden skin, lift a rock. Surface-level manipulations. But if the school was about reshaping reality, then why not understand reality first?
That was where the good stuff lived.
To him, Alteration wasn't about ignoring reality. It was about knowing it down to the joints—then leaning on the ones that moved.
And he didn't need flashy results.
Just the right question.
His research always circled back to the same scenario:
A warrior swings a weapon. No enchantments. No Magicka. Just motion. Just physics.
So what determines the damage if negate will?
First: mass. Basic, but essential. The weight of the weapon defined the upper limit of potential force. Heavy meant more impact—but also more drag. It wasn't just about power; it was about control.
Then: velocity—the speed of the swing at the moment of contact. More important than most realized. Kinetic energy scaled as ½mv². Double the speed, and the energy didn't double—it quadrupled. A fast blade mattered more than a heavy one, if you understood the numbers.
And then: momentum—mass times velocity. That decided whether a blade cut clean through, lodged, or bounced. Momentum determined follow-through, not just impact.
None of it needed Magicka to exist. It was already there, baked into the world.
And with the right question, he'd already developed two Alteration spells—both centered on mass. One to increase it. One to reduce it.
The simplest variable. The most practical starting point.
And with the right questions, he'd created two Alteration spells of his own.
Both affected his weapon. And both were simple.
The first, which he named Slipcut, reduced the weapon's mass at the moment of movement with timed cases. It didn't make the blade faster—it made it easier to move. The edge accelerated with less effort. Swings started quicker, adjusted mid-arc more smoothly. Useful in fast duels, where initiative mattered more than raw force.
The second was Crashmark—a single-use cast that increased the weapon's mass just as it connected. Same motion. Same speed. More weight behind it. The force transfer on impact was brutal, often enough to stagger, break bone, or punch through lighter armor.
But the spells couldn't be layered.
Increasing mass negated the benefits of lowered inertia—and vice versa. One made the blade faster. The other made it hit harder. He had to choose before the swing.
And that, to Rashan, was the point.
Not to cast more—just to cast smarter.
Now came the question of what weapon the spells could be applied to.
Iron cracked. Steel warped. Even Nordic steel, hardened and folded, couldn't survive repeated casting. Crashmark put too much stress on the blade mid-swing—especially on contact with armor. The sudden weight shift strained the tang and spine. Slipcut wore down sharpened edges fast, stripping bite from the steel with every use.
Ebony or Daedric would've solved it. But Rashan didn't have access—and he wasn't rich enough to keep replacing high-end blades just to test theory.
So he went with Orcish metal.
He had it special-ordered. No flourish, no inscription. A straight-backed, double-edged blade forged from old Orc alloy—dense, pressure-tolerant, built to take punishment. Unsharpened by design, closer to a ruler sword than a battlefield weapon, but nearly twice the weight of a standard blade its size.
Any weapon could take his spells. That wasn't the issue.
The issue was surviving them.
Sharpened swords chipped or bent under Crashmark's force. Curved blades failed to track properly under Slipcut—too many shifting angles for the inertia reduction to stay stable. The sword needed to move clean, straight, and fast.
And this one did.
The beautiful thing about it was balance.
Despite its weight, it moved like a sword. Not a club. The center was stable. The grip didn't fight his hand. There was structure in the design—discipline in the way it carried force.
Left alone, it hit like a sledgehammer.
But with Slipcut, he could reduce the drag and swing it like a normal longsword. Same reach. Same control. None of the fatigue.
That was the point.
Brute force when he wanted it. Precision when he needed it.
And no edge to break.
Perfect. If this is conjecture, Rashan isn't testing it in the field yet—he's thinking through the physics and imagining how it would behave. We'll keep it internal, speculative, and rooted in his analytical mindset. Here's the revised passage:
Even with Slipcut active, the weapon would still hit harder than a standard blade.
The spell eased the start of motion—reduced resistance where the swing began—but the mass remained. That weight didn't disappear. If anything, it would land sharper, with less delay between intent and impact.
A full-speed strike would drive straight through balance and stance. The blade wouldn't glance off armor. It would carry through it—flattening chain, bruising flesh beneath. The edge didn't need to cut. Force alone would disrupt breath, rattle ribs, send the target stumbling or reeling.
And what would happen when Crashmark was used with the right timing?
The sword would already be in motion—swing committed, weight shifting through his hips, arms following through. The spell would trigger mid-arc, just before contact, and the blade would suddenly double in mass.
Velocity stays the same. But now the weight behind it jumps.
The impact force would spike—fast and hard. A strike that normally staggered might break something. Ribs. A collarbone. A knee, if the angle hit low. The blade wouldn't need to cut. It would hit like a battering ram.
Against armor, the energy would still pass through. Mail might stay intact, but the body underneath would take the shock. Bruising, internal damage. Maybe worse. Plate would dent. Shields would crack. Fingers would break from the force alone.
If the spell landed clean, the fight could end on the first blow.
No flash. No sound. Just a sudden, violent shift in weight—too fast to see, too heavy to stop.
The trick was timing.
Too early, and the swing would drag before it landed. Too late, and the spell would miss the point of impact. But if it hit just right—when the blade was at full extension, mid-strike—
Then the only thing left standing would be him.
They cost less Magicka than most expected.
That was the point.
Alteration spells, especially in formal circles, were usually broad. Stoneflesh, Waterbreathing, Paralyze—designed to act across the whole body, or a wide area, for long durations. Stable effects. Heavy drain.
Crashmark and Slipcut weren't built like that.
They were targeted, brief, and timed to exact motion. Slipcut didn't coat the weapon in energy—it only reduced internal resistance during a very short window, and only when the sword moved. Crashmark didn't increase mass permanently. It added weight for a fraction of a second, at a specific point in the arc, when velocity was already built.
That specificity mattered.
Because the Magicka wasn't holding the effect over time or space—it was only triggering a momentary change, within the weapon itself, inside natural laws.
The old texts always said Alteration "bent the world." Rashan didn't bend anything. He shifted it just enough to tip the outcome.
And because the spells didn't fight against the world—just leaned into it—they burned less fuel.
Precise timing. Narrow scope. Short duration.
The kind of magic that did exactly what it was told, and nothing more.
Rashan held up the sword, turning it slowly in both hands.
Fresh from the forge—barely oiled, edges still untouched by use. The Orcish metal caught the lamplight in dull waves, no polish, just raw weight and work.
Slightly shorter than a standard longsword. The length had been intentional—enough reach for two-handed leverage when needed, short enough to wield single-handed in hallways or tight alley fighting. The blade ran straight, double-edged, and unsharpened. More tool than ornament.
A deep central fuller split the flat like a ruler's spine. The whole weapon looked more like a measuring bar than a sword, and that was by design. Blunt force over finesse. Compression over cutting. Edge geometry meant maintenance. He didn't need that.
The crossguard had no curve, just squared steel blocks thick enough to punch aside real weapons. The grip stretched longer than standard, wrapped in dark leather, still stiff from recent work. The pommel matched—slabbed, angular, weighted enough to drive into bone or snap a wrist if the angle was right.
He rolled the sword across his palm, testing the feel. It carried heavy, but not sluggish. The balance sat just ahead of the guard—enough to keep momentum honest, close enough to recover.
This was what he'd been building toward.
Three sessions a day. Regression runs. Indomitable Stamina.
Every strike, every drill, every repetition had led to this—one weapon built to take punishment, move clean, and finish what it touched.
There had been easier paths.
Ones where others fought while he planned.
Where words replaced steel, and safety could be earned by rank or distance.
A smile traced the edge of his mouth as he thought about his next spell.
Arrowshift was a minor Alteration spell designed to increase velocity of his arrows.
The added velocity changed the way arrows landed.
With standard shots, penetration depended on draw strength, arrow mass, and distance. Enough to pierce flesh, break skin, maybe crack bone—especially with a clean hit. But against armor or shielded angles, stopping power dropped fast.
With Arrowshift, that changed.
The increase in velocity meant more kinetic energy at the moment of contact. Arrows hit harder—driving deeper into flesh, punching through light armor with greater consistency. Against exposed bone, they didn't deflect—they split. Ribs cracked. Shoulder joints gave way. A strike to the thigh could bury half the shaft before slowing.
Wooden shields suffered the most. The extra force splintered the face on contact. Arrows that would have stuck or bounced now buried into the grain, sometimes punching clean through.
Against chain or light plate, it didn't always pierce, but the force still carried. Bruising. Breakage. Knockback. Even a glancing shot could shift balance or disrupt movement.
The arrow's path stayed the same.
But the arrival—
that felt heavier.
And for someone reading the fight in real time, it gave Rashan a slight but decisive edge. A fraction of a second faster. A little deeper. Just enough to change the outcome.
The cast happened at release. As the arrow left his grip, Rashan transferred a small, precisely tuned Alteration effect into the shaft. The spell held for only a fraction of a second.
Roughly a meter into flight, the effect activated.
The spell applied directional force along the arrow's existing trajectory, increasing its speed mid-flight. Not by creating new energy, but by briefly amplifying its forward motion. The velocity changed instantly. No build-up. No visible effect.
Alteration could manipulate physical forces—gravity, inertia, weight. In this case, the spell was calibrated to act on velocity alone. It didn't affect the path. It didn't adjust the arrow's direction. It simply accelerated what was already in motion.
The spell used almost no Magicka. The cost was low because the window was tight, the area of effect limited, and the manipulation targeted.
The bow fired the arrow. The spell made it arrive faster.
As he thought of the bow his thoughts drifted to destruction magic his teacher had wanted him to spend some time learning it.
But he refused to bother with it.
Destruction magic had power. That wasn't in question.
But in real fights—moving targets, terrain, limited windows—it slowed everything down. Spells took time. They needed room, focus, and Magicka to spare. The stronger the cast, the more it drained. And once the reserves ran dry, they stayed dry.
The bow didn't need that.
It worked from cover. From silence. It scaled with arrow type, skill, and range—not raw energy. Paired with Arrowshift, it gave him clean reach and impact without drawing attention or pulling from reserves. Fire-and-forget, at its most literal.
But the real reason sat deeper.
He carried something in his blood. Dormant for now, but present. He could feel it. In certain texts. In old names. In how some words felt louder than sound when he read them.
The Thu'um would come.
And when it did, no Destruction mage would match him. They would shape fire through schools and runes. He would shout it down a valley. They would drain themselves for a spell. He would speak once and watch it land harder.
So there was no reason to invest in something he'd eventually outgrow.
He didn't need to master flame, frost, or storm through spellbooks.
He'd speak them into being when the time came.